


All Nighter

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Canon Relationships, Early Work, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lassiter Whump, Major Character Injury, No Slash, Shawn Whump, Torture, Written in 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassie and Shawn get to know one another better during an evening out for some lovely torture.  Part of my, still on-going, short story collection on Psychfic: http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=413</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

“Stop whistling.”

 

The jumpy little tune, indescribably inappropriate to their surroundings, ended in a drawn out plummet that, had he the ability to move, would have been cut off with his elbow in the other man’s kidneys.

 

“You know, you’re grouchy when you haven’t had that second cup of coffee.”

 

Carlton shifted, hunching forward slightly with his lips peeled from his teeth.

 

“Spencer, you’re leaking down the back of my neck- lack of coffee has nothing to do with my mood.”  He wriggled, disgusted as more fluid rolled a slow and ticklish path beneath his collar.  “Swear to God, I better not catch something from you…”

 

The ropes around his torso pulled as Spencer apparently leaned forward.

 

“Don’t pass out!”

 

The psychic straightened again, breathing a little faster, but only for a moment. “I’m not passing out, I was just trying to scratch my nose.”

 

Carlton grunted, but didn’t bother to comment.  Actually, he was now trying not to notice all the little parts of his own body that were begging for a scratch.  As it was, hands bound in front of him, his trousered legs secured to jean-clad, and back to back with Spencer while hanging roughly three feet off the ground by a chain, managing to itch the top of his foot should have been far down on the list of importance.  Should have been.  He rotated his ankle- the only move he could make- hoping the slight rub of his shoe would help… nope.  Actually, now it was worse.  Dammit- why did Spencer even open his mouth!

 

The ropes tugged again.

 

“Let me guess- your eye itching now?”

 

Shallow inhalations, the ropes creaking with motion.

 

“No, actually, this time I was passing out.”

 

He could feel more wetness soaking through his shirt, and he pressed his lips around a curse.  Circulation was bad enough the way they were bound, but with Spencer bleeding besides…

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

If anyone should be tied up to this one eight-hundred dial a fool it should be the man’s cohort and calmer half.  Of course, when this was all said and done, Guster might be flying it solo whether their captor was the one to finish them off or Lassiter took care of it himself.

 

“Okay, sharing time.  Did you ever TiVo the Easy Curves commercial?”

The voice was definitely more tired than it had been a few minutes ago.  Clearly an attempt at distraction, the topic wasn’t half bad.  It did involve more pleasant mental contemplation than the current balls up rocking their feet back and forth above a concrete floor.

“Don’t be stupid.  Of course I did.”

His own voice was lacking that whip-snap retort quality he usually strived for.  Of course, they’d been going on quite some time without food or water since he’d first found Spencer sprawled out across the floor of his office- bleeding profusely from the back of his head.  Not typically a place he liked to frequent, he’d given in to this particular tryst with the promise of cinnamon rolls and a ‘mind-bending’ revelation on the current case.

One moment of staring at the clobbered man- gun unholstered and reaching for his phone…

When he’d woken up again, his jaw had been thumping viciously and he’d been lying on the floor, Spencer at his back and still out.  He’d had the barest memory of something blurring towards his face just as his finger had punched speed dial. 

Looking beyond the immediate, he’d taken in more of the room he was now in.  Grey walls on four sides, about twelve by twelve.  No windows, one door with a small barred peephole midway up.  The fifteen foot ceiling had a long hooked chain hanging from the center.

Painful grating of unoiled hinges had opened the door minutes later, raising a groan from his companion- followed by the observation that Gus must have painted the office while he was out.  Yeah, he was coherent.

But the man that had entered…

“Who-th-ell are you…?”  He’d slurred through his swollen face.  It wasn’t anyone they’d liked for the current investigation…

A grin, but no words.  Then the man walked in the room and moved out of sight.  And then…

“Who the hell are you?”

Ohhh shit…

A rustle of cloth, a loud clatter, and then the man was kneeling.  Spencer had muttered something else, but it had been distorted, like was speaking through a gag.  And then hands had slid down between them.  He felt a jerk, and then the man had stood.  Spencer coughed, groaning again.

“Dude, knee in the face so not ne-Guuhh!”

The vicious kick had shoved both men several inches, though only one was suffering from the blow.

“Spencer!”

Only shaky gasps, but he was breathing.

Turning his head around as far as he could see, Lassiter had watched the man walk to the far wall to press a button inset next to the door.

Instantly there’d been a ratcheting sound, and their bodies had begun to rise from the floor.

The ropes had begun to bite into his torso even while they were still on the concrete.

Once their toes were swinging in open air- both of them shifting in discomfort at the pressure of bindings and gravity, the chain had stopped.

A last look at his captives, and the man had left.

That had been about two hours ago.  Two hours of steady pain.  Two hours of blood that wasn’t his slowly running down his back.  Two hours of…

“Dude, can you believe how they ended Supernatural??  Seriously, how are we supposed to survive the next six months with that kind of cliffhanger?”

Carlton dropped his head, knowing rescue couldn’t come soon enough.

This was going to be a long wait.


	2. Kick in the Head

All things considered, it had been a damn fine anniversary yesterday- five years of successful charlatanism had to be a Guinness record.  Gifts had been parceled out- mostly of the spiky fruity variety- guests had arrived sort-of on time- surprising even more that they had come in the first place- Carlton’s ever dour persona managing to crack a loose grin after the beer had started to pour.  And for once, he and his father had managed an entire evening without one argument.  Okay, not totally true, but that little baby spat about the cheap locks that continued to grace their doors wasn’t really _that_ important.  Honestly- what did the man want- a three foot thick bank vault? 

Actually, come to think of it, that argument could possibly have a tiny bit of merit…

**_“Guh!!”_ **

His head snapped sideways as another blow attempted to dislodge teeth- splitting his lip even further on that stubborn incisor that refused to budge.  Blood and the hours-old aftertaste of barbecued ribs made for a wretched flavor blend- particularly when the remainder of said ribs were feeding the miscreants not currently beating him senseless- as well as the cinnamon rolls bribery laid out for a certain recalcitrant Head detective who was running way later than his battered body could forgive.

“You mind going easy on the chow?  I promised Gus I’d save him some leftov- ** _UHNG!!_** ”

Giving up on the teeth, the next cheap-shot impacted beneath his sternum- crumpling him partway to the floor- destination halted by the overlapping hands locked around his arms.  Damn, that was gonna bruise.  Coughing when he could finally breathe, he decided dangling from the combined grips was more uncomfortable than standing.  However, the chance to do so when, still unbalanced, his arms were abruptly released.  Barely getting his hands up in time, he clipped his chin against the toe of the boot resting before him… seconds before it lifted up and stomped on his fingers.

Teeth locking around the small yelp, he whimpered as the heel ground down, twisting the trapped digits until he was certain they were done for.  However, oddly merciful, the pressure stopped just short of actual breakage.  No sigh of relief though as the studded leather promptly slammed into his gut.

Air left without a sound- vocalizing an impossibility at this point no matter how much it hurt.  And even while his intestines were slowly gliding away from his spine, another brutal kick from the back threatened to dislocate his hip.  He still couldn’t cry out though his mouth opened wide to do just that- only a piercing squeak escaping.  Honestly, he wouldn’t mind some other sound to mask the sickening _THUCK_ of his flesh being assaulted. 

The guy behind him kneeled after taking his turn with shoeprint tattooing, tugging Shawn’s arms around his back and wrapping excessive layers of something sticky and likely to strip hairs upon removal around his wrists and partway up his arms.  Why they bothered at this point was beyond him- the most he could do in retaliation involving bodily fluids. 

Then Punchy Guy number one was back, also crouching, and locking his fingers around a wad of hair Shawn was really unwilling to part with.  His head only lifting so far before the angle became excruciating, he breathed in sharp gasps while the Hulk’s pale twin examined him expressionlessly. 

There was movement then to the side and behind, the other three joining the first man to close in around him.  Swallowing was painful, but he couldn’t stop himself.  There was no way this lions around a kill mentality could be a positive development.

“How much time left?”

Assuming the odd question was for him, his mouth opened- only to bite shut sharply on his tongue with another crushing punch- drowning out the answer over his shoulder.

Clearly, however, the response was significant, as the activity increased exponentially.  But clues were clicking- and the sudden answer demanded articulation before thought could halt him.  “You’re waiting for Lassit- ** _UNNH!_** ”

He nearly vomited, that last kick feeling like it ruptured his stomach.  Ow-OW!

Groaning tightly, he hissed as the grip on his hair tightened for a moment before releasing him- allowing him to curl up miserably.  God he didn’t want to puke.

One of the men snapped his fingers.  There was an ominous sound of metal sliding over leather- speeding his heart.  He tensed, like it would somehow help, and then froze when the pressure of a muzzle pressed against his temple.

He clenched teeth together and stared forward.

“No!  The sound will carry- and we might still need him.”

The gun lifted away.

He breathed.

And then the stock of pistol smashed into the back of his skull.


	3. Sacrifice

The fact that he’d finally shut up brought no relief.  The fact that his silence was coupled with a heavy sag surged a prickle race of fear through his legs- about the only sensation he could really feel what with the too tight ropes still masterfully killing circulation.  Dammit- if he dropped limbs over this someone was going to experience a lingering death with a bullet hole in their gut.

“Spencer…”

Hell- that’s what he sounded like now?  Breathlessness did amazing things for pitch and carrying power.  Never before having trouble being heard over the biggest crowds, that wimpy little address couldn’t even make it past his shoulder.

He twisted his neck back and forth.  The flow of blood had finally stopped as well- dried to tacky, it itched something fierce where it coated across his skin.  Thick and loathsome substance at the best of times, the fact that it belonged to wonderboy made it all the more gruesome to bear. 

It troubled him that he couldn’t see the man at his back.  He knew he was alive, the shallow respiration could be felt if not heard; but loss of blood could easily have put him at risk for shock- not to mention injuries Carlton might not know of. 

He lifted his arms again, once more plying his teeth to the ropes bound at his wrists.  Tough and fibrous, it only made his incisors sting- biting and pulling at the solid knots.  After another minute, he let them drop once more.  Neck and shoulders, back aching furiously- chest still beat it all with the steady pressure cutting at his breath.  Suffocation was no joke the longer they hung like this- no desire to go out that way- execution style so much more appealing in light of this torture.

“…hey…”  A pathetic yell- more whispered mutter than demand to see their captors.  But maybe they had microphones set up, because across the way the single door squealed in teeth shattering protest as a form bullied it aside followed by two hulking friends.  Sure, because Tiny needed all the backup his three hundred pound frame could muster.

Nothing verbal- a signal that they were actually the hairless gorillas he suspected them to be, Kong number one shuffled straight to the control box on the wall and applied his skills at pressing buttons.  Ratcheting clatter, and the floor began approaching like a desert mirage after a week without liquids.  And dammit- now he was thirsty too.

He assumed his feet met the concrete, though sensation did nothing to confirm this.  However, in the seconds following, his knees bent, and then his body as gravity reclaimed its lost sons to its weighty bosom.  Kong two approached while his companions moved about the room, rapidly doing away with the chain before cutting the ropes from their bodies.  There was a loud slapping sound at his back, and abruptly afterward- a protesting moan. 

“…dad- c’mon… s-early…”

Hm… not bad.  Those almost sounded like words.

A ringing crack and a yelp- and fuzzy mutter melted to fast breaths. 

“He’s got a head wound- give him a damn second!”  Uttered furiously, certainly not out of any kinship reasons, he never did care for assholes that kicked beaten puppies.

Still nothing worded back, the third goon wandered into his vision long enough to comment on his opening arguments by removing the air from his lungs very forcibly and somewhat painfully.  Great, and he’d just started processing oxygen again too.

“What, the best you… pansies can offer… is a bitch slap?”

_What in the name of Holy God was..?!_

Leaving the crumpled detective, the walking mountain vanished around his back.  And instantly he felt the not quite warm enough form still pressed against him ripped away- the sound of flesh striking the floor immediately followed up with a sickening THACK and sharply expelled vocalization. 

“Spencer!”

The cry was cut off before it ended, multiple strikes forcing Lassiter to breathe through his pulverized organs and pivot his body, trying to motivate useless legs only just beginning their violent reaction to returning circulation.

They were beating him.

And he couldn’t stop it.  He couldn’t even stand!

“Stop!”

Kicks and punches continued, sarcasm shelved as the younger man curled uselessly- no more words saved pained grunts.

“Dammit STOP!”

One more kick- a muffled crack and a clenched howl- and they stopped.

Filing back out, the first individual took an extra second to share another gut punch with the detective.  Then, he too exited the room. 

The door made their prison once again.

Frozen while his innards hesitated at realignment, the moment he was able he started crawling to the other’s side.  Wrists still bound, his legs were freed- so movement wasn’t impossible- just agonizing.

Still, he wasn’t the one bleeding and broken.  Well, not as badly anyhow.

“Spencer?”

Breathy moan.  Well that was a start anyhow.

Reaching the curled form, he shifted until he was on his knees- tingle prick suddenly escalating as blood rush backtracked and rerouted- damn he hated that sensation!  Both hands felt at the side of the neck, noting the speed and beat of the pulse under the skin- uneven but continuous.  And mouth moved at his touch.

“…ssie…”

“Are you an idiot!?  What’s with this antagonizing bullcrap!  Can’t you keep it zipped for more than a minute?  You must thrive on stupid!”  Yeah, not really comfort but considering the young man’s father he was pretty sure he could take it.

“…’ad to…”

Sure.  Okay.  “Oh?  And why would that be?  Trying to impress them with how well you can take a ruptured spleen?  I’m sure you bleeding on them was very intimidating.”  Meanwhile fingers continued to test for freshness- prodding the soft spots and looking for fractures. 

“Cn’t… have us both… h’rt…”

Carlton stopped when pressure against the younger man’s side made him choke in pain, cutting off his words.  “What are you talking about- what difference does it make?”  Knew the man was a moron, he just hadn’t counted on suicidal.

Sucking into his lungs, Spencer rallied and forced out the rest of his sentence.

“One of us… has… to get out… alive…”


	4. Gray

He was out for… he didn’t know how long actually.

 

Pain spiked through him again- fluctuating stabs that radiated up and down his body.  There wasn’t any specific part of him that seemed to ache any less than another.  Equal opportunity agony.

 

He shivered… but he couldn’t quite decide if he was too hot or too cold.

 

If crying were a manly expression he’d be all on top of that one.

 

“Spencer… you awake yet?”

 

Oh right, Lassie was here too.  Okay eyes, don’t fail me now dudes - work with me here.

 

One lid slid up fairly easily, taking in somewhat blurred walls in the sketchy darkness.  The other lid, though, was not playing nice and only managed half-mast, the effort more painful than a simple eye opening should be.

 

This idea clearly should have gone through a committee before being acted upon. 

 

“Hey… ‘ssie’fce…”  Damn, he sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of marshmallow.

 

Shadows moved into sight first, followed by the sliding form of the detective as he pulled himself across the floor.  Lassiter’s hands were bound as were, Shawn noted, his own.  He turned his wrists only to flinch at the ropes twisting against his flesh.

 

“Don’t bother.  I tried untying them earlier but the knots are too tight.”

 

Shawn coughed, then spat- noticing red among the saliva.  Gross.

 

At his side, Lassiter shifted, then opened his mouth.  However, Shawn spoke first.

 

“You mind if we… pass on… the how’re you?”  Groaning, he started to roll to his stomach when he choked on a gasp, mouth open as weak moans scraped out past his teeth. 

 

“I think they broke a rib earlier- you probably shouldn’t move.”

 

He would love to comment on the other man’s ridiculously timely advice- maybe coupled with a friendly jab to his midsection- but realized that too would require motion of some sort.  Right.  Moving equaled bad.  He could probably remember that even without the photographic memory.

 

Slow gain back of breathing ability, Shawn finally allowed relaxation to ease through him in stages- though he couldn’t go completely slack as it pulled too many places.  He wished he could simply roll back onto his shoulders.  However, just thinking of it made him want to puke. 

 

“Wh- who are… these guys?”

 

Thank God, his voice was actually coming back to him.

 

Meanwhile, Lassiter sighed in a very uncomforting way.  “I have no idea.  I was hoping your… _gift_ … would answer that question.”

 

There really wasn’t anything at all remotely funny about that statement. And yet, Shawn couldn’t prevent the shaking chuckles in spite of his very desperate desire to do so.  And, of course, the consequences were immediate and agonizing.  Jostled ribs proceeded to shred themselves from his upper chest- clearly trying to make a break for freedom via his midsection.  Amusing how humor and pain produced such similar vocalizations.

 

There was another haze out at that point.  Had to have been because when he opened his eyes again he was on his back and unless they’d suddenly started dating, Lassiter was leaning in far too close even for _his_ comfort.

 

“Uhg, dude- way too early for Frenching.  I haven’t even had my morning Scope rinse yet.”

 

Worry fading to irritation, the detective sat back quickly.  “I was checking your pulse you idiot.”  The words were right, but the inflection just wasn’t believable.  That had to be a bad sign.

 

So, subject shift time.

 

“Did these guys… say anything to you?”

 

Sitting up so he could lean his back against the wall, the other man shook his head.  “No.  They haven’t spoken a word to me yet.”  His eyes dragged around the small room, the study merely practice as it was obvious there wasn’t much else to look at.  Finally though, he gaze returned to the young man at his feet.

 

There was something in his face…

 

The door squealed, and instinctively Shawn flinched at the sound.  Even as he was turning towards the scrape of metal on metal, the detective was lurching to his feet to place himself in front of the consultant.  Shawn felt a combination of startled admiration and mild aggravation because- though unexpectedly heroic as it was - the move sorta cut into his view of what was going on.

 

“What do you want?”

 

He had to give props to the older man.  He wasn’t sure he could muster such a relaxed query at this stage.  Lassie sounded as calm as a Caesar salad. 

 

Aaannd now he was hungry.  Great.

 

Just past the detective’s legs he could see three sets of feet enter the room - the forth pair hanging out by the door.  One pair walked up to Lassiter while the other two swung out to the sides.  Shawn’s neck ached trying to see what was happening, but he kept watching anyhow.

 

“What do you want?”  Repeated Lassiter, enunciating slowly- his voice much more growly than before.

 

And as previous, there was no verbal answer.  But suddenly Lassiter barked out a gust of air as he doubled over- the guy in the middle having just buried his fist in the detective’s gut.

 

“Hey!”  Not so on the intimidating side while lying on the floor, Shawn still argued with the treatment of the other man. 

 

However, ignoring him, the first goon grabbed Lassiter by the shoulders and threw him against the wall where- groaning- he slid down in a soupy pile.

 

And then the other two men stalked forward.

 

Shawn tried to shove back with his heels but there was nowhere to go as the huge forms descended on him, big hands wrapping around his arms and forcing him to his feet.  He whined at the pull in his midsection, but pressed his lips tight on the rest of his complaints. 

 

Dragged to the middle of the room, he flicked his eyes towards Lassiter just as the detective was lifting his head.  The first man was now kneeling beside him, a forearm braced beneath his chin and pressing into his throat.  The look on Lassiter’s face was murderous.

 

“You guys think you could… dig up the concierge?  We… ordered r-room service like an… hour ago…st’ll waiting on-on those… specials…”

 

Okay, that was officially the worst mangling of a sentence he’d attempted since Mexico.  The first time.  Actually the second time too now that he thought about it.

 

Thankfully his request wasn’t met with a punch.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t met with an answer either.  Or a plate of stroganoff. 

 

Instead, one of the men grasped both his arms while the other knelt down and lifted the hook still lying on the floor like a metal snake.  This couldn’t end well no matter how it played out.  Struggling, however, didn’t seem to make it easier.  In fact - it just made him hurt more.  And it was also pretty pointless as the hands wrapped around his biceps were locked in place like iron clamps.

 

Standing, Bluto nodded towards the man at the door, who slapped the now familiar button- the grinding sound racing his heartbeat in a truly Pavlovian response.  However, he suspected the dogs got off easy with a little drooling for their dinner - his own reactions slightly more justified as the hook stopped just above eye level.

 

Wrenching his arms, the man holding him positioned his bound wrists over the thick cold metal, another nod restarting the gradual process of raising his hands above his head.  He couldn’t stop a few small panting cries - the pull against his ribs was excruciating.  Sweat trailed down his temples at the strain - the hook continuing to rise until his feet were swinging above the floor.

 

“Stop it!!”

 

Anger silenced with a sharp punch - Lassiter was quickly muffled with a torn off strip of tape slapped across his lips.  Why they bothered made no sense until the man at the door vanished for a second, only to return with a video camera mounted on a tripod.

 

Already knowing the next few minutes were likely to be unpleasant, Shawn was actually relieved to see the recording equipment.  Documentation almost assuredly meant contact of some kind.  The fact that they’d taken Lassiter, went out of their way to grab him, meant the cops would be involved.  Which meant these guys wanted to deal.  If not, he and Lassie would be worm chow by this point.

 

Unless… of course… these guys just happened to be really sadistic bastards and were making a home video so they could remember the good times. 

 

Okay, since when did he become Miss Molly Morose?

 

Adjusting the legs of the tripod, the first man peered through the lens - lifting the height about an inch before giving a thumbs up to the two men at Shawn’s side.  They pulled black ski masks from their pockets and tugged them over their heads.

 

The red light came on.

 

There was no time to prepare as the first punch slammed into his torso - rocking him backward with the blow.  Breathless, he could only gape in frozen pain as another strike quickly followed up the first - swinging him the other direction.

 

Blow after blow pulverized his body - though a buried center of his brain noted that the fists seemed to be avoiding his busted rib.  Not that it meant a lot if he died from internal bleeding.

 

Then, abruptly, the men stopped; stepping back from his sagging form.

 

Coughing, spitting, he noticed the stringy blood flow off his lips was heavier than before.

 

He tried to lift his head, but he felt so weak.  He could barely breathe; each attempt shallow and sharp.

 

One of his punishers walked behind him, grasping the back of his shirt.  The other reached into his pocket again and lifted out something blunt and metal.  At least, blunt until he folded open the thick blade.

 

He might have been tired, and on the verge of checking out, but the sight of that sharp length struck something primal and Shawn felt the race of adrenaline as he suddenly swung out his legs and kicked hard - managing to bury his foot in the advancing goon’s side. 

 

And goon-boy… chuckled. 

 

Shit.

 

Shit!

 

With his empty hand, the man swung fast, cracking the back of his knuckles into Shawn’s cheek.  Dazed, he blinked as the two of them grasped his collar and proceeded to rip the shirt from his body - tossing the tattered remains to the floor.  Shaking his head a bad choice, Shawn glanced down at himself, groaning at the mottled patchwork of his body.

 

Then, grasping his chin and forcing up his head, the guy with the knife stared into his eyes - dark brown meeting hazel.  And though he couldn’t see a mouth, he could tell the man was smiling.

 

Dropping his face, the man took a step back, angling slightly to the side.

 

He lifted his hand.

 

The tip of the blade touched against Shawn’s chest.

 

And he screamed as the first slice was dragged across.

 

Blood rolled down from the cut, tickling where it trickled down his belly.  Rather than lift the blade away for a fresh start, the edge was turned in his flesh, digging in a bit deeper as the man changed direction.

 

He screamed again, unable to keep it locked away at the brutal torture.  He could hear steady drops of blood patting against the floor beneath him, streaks wide and red painting down his form, staining into his jeans.  He pinched shut his eyes.

 

Each cut was horrific torment and each new slash was just as agonizing as the one before until his cries melted into a single ongoing scream.

 

And then it was over.

 

The knife lifted away and, when he looked again, the man was wiping off the blood with the torn remnants of his shirt.

 

Then, as a group, the four men turned their backs and left - door locking shut.

 

Lassiter tore the tape from his mouth and stumbled to his feet- lurching quickly to the wall where he smacked his palms against the button recessed there.  A jolt, and the chain began its noisy feed again, slowly lowering Shawn back to the floor. 

 

It was impossible not to whimper as his waist bent upon touching down on the concrete, folding him as his shaking legs were unable to keep his footing.  The moment he was flat, Carlton stopped the process and hurried back to his side, freeing him from the hook before grabbing up the discarded shreds of his shirt. 

 

The moment the cloth touched the lacerations he bit into his tongue, trying to control himself.  It was no use.  Tears seeped past his lashes as his body shook with sobs.  It was just too much.

 

And on that note, though he’d never, ever, ever admit it… on pain of death a very real possibility…

 

He really wanted his dad.


	5. Words

Buried in the disaster of her desk- the leftover detritus of a night spent not sleeping cluttered before her in the forms of spent coffee cups and more takeout containers than one human could physically tackle, Karen Vick lifted her head at the urgent knock at her door.  Peeling a Post it from her cheek, her hand waved towards the form trying to peer at her through the blinds.  “Come in McNab!  And that coffee better be for me.” 

Passing over the steaming cup, he didn’t hesitate to also present another gift.  Not the flaky Danish she’d been daydreaming about- the manila package had a distinct shape to its bulk that relegated breakfast to the deeper areas of contemplation. 

Snatching up the prize while barely managing to rest her extra large with cream on the edge of her blotter, Karen stood and strode- hand grasping the officer and she propelled them both from the room. 

Tall man released once she was past the threshold, Vick continued on alone to the conference room, securing the door with a click and wheeling the small set close before ripping into the envelope for the cassette buried within- gloves snapping on seconds before she went prospecting.

No markings, no note, no identification of any kind.  Lab boys could dust for prints once she was through, the churn of urgency had her sliding the tape into the VCR and flipping on the set.  Still standing, she only had a few moments of waiting before the black faded out to a scene. 

There was no warning,

Sound turned up higher than she anticipated, the wrenching scream, almost jostled the remote from her fingers before she managed to clutch tighter.

“Oh my God…”  Weak and sick, the words tumbled out in shadowy horror at the brutality playing out far too crisply on the screen.  Slashing blade held just so to maximize viewing, Shawn Spencer’s form wreathed in agony as he was slashed repeatedly across his chest and belly- cuts shallow but numerous as blood flowed from his many wounds.

“God…” Spoken again through her fingers, she was feeling her cop side slowly drowning as mother sensibilities rocketed forward.  A daily battle of prioritizing emotions, she’d rarely struggled this much to reassert her professional demeanor. 

Closing her eyes, surprisingly, seemed to help.  Regretfully she could still hear.

Only blocking for the seconds it took to gain control, Karen quickly punched stop before rewinding to the beginning.  Shock tightly reined, investigator mode brought into play, she restarted the tape- this time actually looking beyond the figure being tortured. 

Little could be made out in the poor light behind the subjects- metal walls, no windows from this angle…  But to the left, almost out of screen, she saw a sock covered foot and leg clothed in dark grey trousers. 

The same trousers she saw yesterday morning on her head detective.

The session ended.

But just before the tape clicked off, a handwritten sign was held up before the lens.

**Release Morton or they both die.**

And the screen went to black.


	6. Trouble Lurking

The bleeding was under control.  At least, he assumed this was the case as the bath of red stuff had stopped leaking and started congealing in an extremely unattractive skin-tight shirt.  Not really the replacement for the shredded garment he was going for.  Dammit, he’d liked that polo!  Of course, he liked all his clothes; he wouldn’t have bought them if he didn’t. 

 

A bony prodding against his shoulder brought a groany complaint and uplift of a single eyelid. 

 

“What big white teeth you have Lassieface.”

 

Thank goodness the detective reined in the obvious desire to punch the man on the floor because Shawn was pretty sure he’d cry if that happened. 

 

Not that he hadn’t already bawled a river.

 

In front of Lassiter.

 

Perfect.

 

“Can you move?”

 

So many ways that question could be answered.  Theoretically, yes, he was capable of motion on some level.  He’d opened one eye after all- so technically that counted right?  And if he opened his mouth to respond, that also counted.  However, if Lassie meant ‘can you move any body parts larger than a breadbox’ then the query took on way more levels of complication.  And for that matter, why was he wasting all this lovely monologue on himself?

 

“I…”

 

“Hold on…”

 

Instantly shushed, he let the rest of the response flow out as air when the other man tipped his head- clearly listening.  After a moment though, he relaxed and turned his attention back to the mangled corpse littered across the concrete.

 

“Okay, here’s what I need you to do…”

 

“Wait…” Had he been masochistic, he’d have held up a hand to visually add importance to his turn at stifling.  However, handcuff restraint was about as far as he was willing to go into that particular arena- though given Lassiter’s propensity for abuse the same couldn’t be said for the lanky detective.  And what was the deal with the guy wanting to always put the hurt on him anyhow?  Of course, others might question his own forays into male flirtation with the Irish gentleman.  Still, there was a fine art to aggravation- and as straight laced as Lassiter was, that seemed to be the one trigger guaranteed to both baffle and discomfort him all at the same time.  Unfortunately, this also seemed to have the side effect of earning yet more head slaps and finger pinches… Ah, what a vicious cycle.  Maybe he WAS masochistic…

 

“What what Spencer?  Spit it out!”

 

Right, he’d planned on speaking.  Okay, where was he again…?  Oh, yeah.

 

“What are we doing again?”

 

Ah, that eye roll.  His day was never quite right if he missed out on that particular gem.

 

“We’re getting out of here.  While you were busy playing a side of beef I managed to lift Dolf Lundgren’s keys from his side pocket.  I’m guessing it won’t be long before he figures that out- so if you can move…”

 

“Lassie!  You sneaky gecko!”  Whispered Shawn back in admiration.  Another eye roll in response.  Awesome.

 

“Just shut up.  I’ll do what I can to help- but I’m not carrying you, so if you plan to come with you’d better start trying now.”

 

That was love, it had to be.  He’d recognize the warm tones of infatuation anywhere.

 

Alright.  This would be a piece of rhubarb crumble.  No problem.  He did this every day.  Just roll to the side…

 

“Gnnuh!”

 

“Shh!”

 

He really should have thought that through a bit more- maybe run it through a few committee meetings- cause in no way had that been a smart move.  And also, he was pretty sure he’d just bitten off his bottom lip.  Future kissing was so gonna suck.

 

“Hang on, you’re good…”

 

Never pictured Lassie-pants as the pleated skirt and twirling baton type.  Shawn gasped again as his body completed its roll to the side- only after he’d rested a few moments did he notice the long fingers braced against his arm.  In better health he’d offer a comment about taking it to second base.  At this moment in time however, he was too busy concentrating on not screaming again.  A shaking moan as he exhaled- grit pushing across the floor as he breathed out.  He was aware that he was shivering.  Of course, he’d probably still be shivering even if his shirt wasn’t currently shredded into postage stamp sized pieces. 

 

“I’m sorry Spencer- I know it hurts…”

 

Oh God, he was dying.  No other reason for the last rites guilt he heard in that tone.

 

“I f-feel fine.  Like a p-papercut… all over my b-body.”

 

Lassiter only grunted, but at least he wasn’t going all Holy Rosary on him anymore.

 

And that was good, because no matter what his body was telling him, he needed to get to his feet.  Lassie was right- they had to go now, or they wouldn’t be leaving at all.  Not in complete pieces anyhow.

 

Whispered cries, tiny yelps, a few unacknowledged tears- but he finally gained a wavering and drooping stance- heavily leaning against the sturdier form beside him.  His hands were ridiculously numb- a condition Lassiter was no doubt experiencing as well- and he wondered how in the hell the man had been able to lift anything- much less go unnoticed by the guy he was lifting it from.  He couldn’t even twist the rope digging into his wrists- the attempt pointless in any event.  However, in spite of his own binding shortcomings, Lassiter appeared to have a slightly improved dexterity- figures he’d get off light on the whole restraint thing.  It did help explain how he was currently gripping the keys in his hand. 

 

Shuffling old man style towards the door, Shawn fought the little digs of dizziness as blood flow changed direction midway through their walk.  Wobbling a bit, he didn’t even bother to comment when Lassiter shifted just slightly to put his shoulder more tightly against him.  An arm against his back would have been spectacular, but they had to work with what they were given.

 

When they finally reached the wall with the keypad, Lassiter allowed him to slump against the metal while he went for the lock.  Old and rusty like the rest of their surroundings, at first the key wouldn’t turn.  Cursing and jiggling as he battled the stiffened bolt, he wrenched at the sliver of metal in his hands until, grinding sideways, the lock gave.

 

Neither moved for a second- instead leaning forward to listen again for the sounds of discovery.  But there was nothing.  Both exhaled, apparently breath holding was a two person sport.  Then, walking back to his slumping companion, Lassiter urged the other man back towards the door.

 

Side by side, Shawn leaning and Lassiter reaching, the door was gripped by two hands. 

 

In a loud and dragging squeal, it was eased open.

 

Shawn wanted to curse now as well, but he held back the exclamation.  At least they’d established there wasn’t a guard waiting just outside.  However, where they _were_ hanging out made it all the more nerve wracking to sneak out into that narrow hallway. 

 

Breathing mostly through his nose, blinking heavily, Shawn kept pace with the other man’s slow steps as he edged them towards the stairs at the far end of the hall.  There was something about this layout that seemed significant, but focused so much on his own misery, he just couldn’t place it.

 

“Stay here, and keep quiet.”  Was whispered fiercely.  Before he could respond, Lassiter darted up the metal stairs and out of sight.

 

Heart lodged behind his larynx at the sudden muffled scuffle followed by a muted thud.  And then a form was rushing back down- the thought of flight erasing when a familiar scowl appeared.

 

“Apparently he wasn’t expecting someone from behind- who carries out guard duty in headphones?  Idiot.”

 

Shawn didn’t really need to ask what he meant by that- and as soon as Lassy’s new toy appeared, he could care less.  Actually, two new toys given the stock of a gun protruding from the detective’s waistband.  However, the only thing that currently mattered to Shawn was the sharp tool that was slicing through his bindings. 

 

A tug and a snap, and after a second’s pause, sensation began to bleed back.

 

And then he wasn’t breathing- the effort to stay silent requiring all his faculties.  Shit!!  Shit-shit-shit and hell too!  Tingle was just the tip of the iceberg as the flood of feeling returned into his stiffened digits.  Had Carlton given him the knife he’d probably use it to cut off his hands- God!

 

“Spencer!  Spencer, open your eyes!”

 

Still whispering, but loud enough to break through his agonized whimpers that just couldn’t be suppressed, Lassiter was moving his gaze anxiously between himself and the stairwell- still bound hands gripping the younger man by one shoulder.

 

Gulping, realizing he didn’t need a repeat of his earlier blubber-fest if he wanted to retain any of the straggling threads of dignity… okay, actually he didn’t care a flying butt- he just really wanted to curl into a tight little muscular ball and… bawl.

 

And then Lassiter shoved his wrists towards his face, knife handle hovering beneath his nose.  Oh yeah…  Okay, wail later.  If he didn’t free the beast soon he’d probably earn even more bruises. 

 

Grip still sketchy, he managed to hold tightly enough to laboriously saw through the rope fibers.  The length slowly spread apart under his less than skillful work- finally releasing after a sharp jerk.  Lassiter grabbed the blade back before it could fall from his shaking hands.

 

“Come on.”

 

 _Now_ there was an arm around his back- hauling him up the stairs with more strength than he’d given the detective credit for.  Who knew that stringy body was layered in muscle?  Of course, it wasn’t like he’d seen the man with his shirt off.  Probably covered in a layer of hibernation level bear fur.  Yeah, he didn’t need that mental image. 

 

“You fall asleep on me and I’ll drop you.”

 

Seriously, the love needed to stop before they started making out. 

 

His misfiring thoughts managed to carry him onward until he was standing next to Lanky McGrumbles at the top of the stairs- a short vista of empty moonlit metal before them; metal that ended abruptly with a railing and a sharp drop.  And with a seagull above squalling as sentry, he suddenly knew where he was.

 

A boat.  A very large- low in the water boat that’s wide hull absorbed the gentle rock of waves.  As if his quaking form would have recognized them had they managed to move the vessel anyhow. 

 

Lassiter stiffened, and thank heaven for darkness because at the far end of the deck a glow gave away another form standing at watch- the lighting of a cigarette haloing briefly around his face.  He too was facing slightly away- though Shawn would bet he wouldn’t have seen them even if he’d been facing the stairway dead on.  The need to hide meant no lights lit the boat.  With the scurry of clouds occasionally drifting across the moon, visibility was even further obscured.

 

Lassiter was gone from his side before he’d even felt him go.

 

A hard clump, and the little burning light tumbled from its perch and over the railing, presumably to extinguish in the water below.

 

Leaving the man crumpled on the deck, the other man returned, gripping Shawn carefully and leading him towards the rail. 

 

The implication was not happy happy joy joy.

 

“Hold on- what about the dock?”

 

Grunting when a readjusted grip dug into his ribs, Shawn limped to a stop and grasped the metal bar in one hand.

 

“The other two are guarding the only dry way off this thing.  We don’t have a choice.”  He felt the words as they heated his earlobe- and the understanding of what was to come only made him shiver harder. 

 

Maybe their cell hadn’t been so bad after all.  What was a little torture between friends? 

 

Obviously Carly was on a different brain path however as he urged them closer until the only option was up and over.

 

That drop suddenly looked so far away.

 

This was gonna hurt.

 

This was gonna hurt like a bitch.

 

“You ready?”

 

Oh hell no.

 

“On the count of…”

 

And he never had the chance to say what they were counting to as a furious shout gave rapid warning- the shatter of bullets whizzing past their heads.

 

And then he was dropping, an eternity of freefall in the dark.

 

And beneath him, waiting for him, was the cold and lapping expanse of black water.


	7. Out Cold

It was Santa Barbara, California.  It was mild, even in winter.  People came here for the sun and sand- beaches running for miles before the warm waves.  Not exactly bathwater, but certainly not freezing by any stretch.

 

But when their bodies struck the expanse below, Carlton felt as though he’d been thrust into a vat of liquid nitrogen.  The sensation was mostly brought on by the shock of hitting water without knowing exactly _when_ he’d be hitting the water.  As the chilly liquid was closing over his head and, incidentally, filling his nose, it occurred to him that he should have removed his shoes.

 

Flailing arms pulled him forward rather than up- the peppering fall of projectiles missiling past a good incentive to suck it up and keep his head down.  Aiming in the dark from a distance of roughly fifteen feet at an underwater target was a joke- everything against them save the fact that they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of ammo.  As it was, the first bullet grazed his forearm seconds before the next embedded into his shoulder- distance and the slowing properties of water the only thing keeping it from becoming debilitating.  He wished he could say the same for how bad it hurt.  He wished he wasn’t underwater so he could scream.

 

By the time he’d put some acceptable distance between himself and his captors where he could chance a desperate gasp of air, he remembered that he hadn’t been the only one taking a dive. 

 

The four letter expletive was part water as his head dipped down- aching swipes pulling him back to the surface where he immediately began scanning.  He was bleeding- he could feel the throbbing thump against his scapula.  But at the moment that was way down the list.

 

Spencer was nowhere to be seen.

 

They’d become separated the moment they’d submerged- and then it had unintentionally become every man for himself.  Dammit- he’d meant to keep the man at his side!  He’d known Spencer was hurt pretty bad- but there’d never been a good time to really evaluate how much damage might have been caused during his little bout of torture. 

 

Every second that ticked by was a cold hammer slamming in Carlton’s chest.  He couldn’t hear any splashing- even the gunshots had stopped.  It was only a matter of time before their captors would bust out the lights.  He couldn’t see anything in the black.  Above water was murky enough.  Below…

 

And to yell would give him away.

 

And with all these logical arguments in place, arm and shoulder pounding, he dove.

 

The only useful tools for search were his hands- swiping out before him as wide open eyes tried frantically to see anything other than black.  Though close to shore, the water was still deep- a good ten or twelve feet.  It could be fathoms though for all the likelihood of finding the other man.  The current was already starting out- and within a few minutes, the chance of finding even a body would be zero.

 

He realized he was already distancing himself.

 

Within seconds he was already on corpse recovery, wiping out the grinning face with the image of a grim statistic.  He wished doing so made it easier.  He wished that in erasing Spencer from his mind he wasn’t replacing him with his father, best friend, and a woman the young man thought he was secretive in pursuing.  He wished it didn’t hurt- already in enough pain he didn’t need to feel that growing tightness in his chest.

 

He surfaced again for air, noticing how far he’d drifted from the boat.  They had flashlights out now- scanning over the water.  Lassiter followed their path- hoping and hoping not.

 

It had to have been at least ten minutes.

 

He was gone.

 

He was gone.

 

Carlton felt nothing.  Everything faded until he couldn’t even feel the throb on his right side. 

 

Cold poured down his back.

 

“Ca- Ca- Carl- GUH… Carph…”

 

Head snapping left- barely there moonlight hazing on the oily waves- ripples skating out from the source of the gasp- he caught the wide open eyes just as the other man slid below the surface.

 

No time- hardly sucking in a breath, he lunged and dove, fingers darting out- stretching until joints popped.  Come on… Come ON!

 

He felt… hair.  Immediately he clenched his hand, apologizing internally while dragging the man close enough to wrap an arm beneath his chin. 

 

And then he was surging for the surface.  His heart was punching through his ribs when he finally broke through once more.  Both of them were coughing and spitting water.  It was noisy, it was frantic, and it was noticed.

 

“Shit!”

 

Lead tore up the water around them, and though neither of them were in any shape for flight, they dug their hands through the tide and swam.

 

As if he hadn’t been bad enough off, Carlton grunted when yet another round skimmed his side.

 

And then Spencer yelped- body jerking.  He’d been shot.  No time to check the damage, the detective kept hauling until they were both shrouded in the darkness.

 

It took nearly fifteen minutes before he felt safe enough to turn them towards shore.

 

The younger man wasn’t doing much by this point, only making the barest motions in a weak attempt to swim.  Carlton was at the end of his strength when his fingers finally sank into the muddy shoreline.

 

They collapsed then, still mostly in the water- limbs pulling back and forth in the current.

 

 

 

 

^~^~^~^~^~^~^

 

 

 

He’d passed out- though he hadn’t planned to.  Sinking into the silty earth, his eyes had shut and the sucking exhaustion had stolen consciousness even as he was trying to drag to dry ground. 

 

It was still dark- no way to tell how long they’d lain there.  And when his eyes finally peeled open, his first emotion had been panic- curling to his other side only to gasp in agony as he remembered the gunshot wounds now screaming in his body.  The two grazes weren’t quite as bad- but the bullet still embedded in his shoulder felt like fire.

 

As it was however, he wasn’t the only one in need of an ER.  Still unmoving beside him, he had yet to find out the severity of Spencer’s newest injury.  How long had he been bleeding?  If it had hit anything vital…

 

He tugged himself to the other figure, opening his eyes wide to maximize vision in the limited light.  His hands moved across the limp body, lifting away carefully where previous assault had left its mark.  He found the wound in seconds.  Still seeping, the bullet had punched through Spencer’s left bicep and clean out the other side.  Stripping his soiled shirt, Lassiter tore off one sleeve to quickly wrap the arm, the younger man whimpering when he pulled the knot tight.

 

“Come on.  You may be able to sleep anywhere but personally I’ve never been a fan of napping in the ocean.”

 

He actually felt some cruelty in prodding the broken frame- forcing him to a violently trembling vertical.  Nearly carrying him, worried when Spencer gave no voice of protest other than helpless whines, Carlton aimed for the road barely seen though the trees.

 

A pair of headlights cut through the black just as the young man collapsed again- Carlton feeling an agonizing tug in his back as he scrambled to keep Spencer’s skull from impacting the ground.

 

He prodded, he threatened, but there was no response this time.  And as the vehicle closed on them, he felt his own weakness take over once more.  He wouldn’t leave the man behind- no matter how much he himself sometimes wished him a level of pain.  And even if he were such a bastard, there was nothing left in his reserves.

 

And slowly he sank down to the gravel at his feet.

 

He blinked torpidly as the headlights blanketed his body.  Remembering the weapon he’d commandeered earlier, he felt at his waistband.  But it was gone, obviously falling out during his little swim.  He still had the knife though, but the four inch blade probably wasn’t the best defense against the arsenal these guys possessed.  He wondered if they’d just kill them here or drag them back to the boat for a bit more fun first.

 

If Spencer was lucky, maybe… maybe he just wouldn’t wake up again.

 

The car stopped, and the interior light lit briefly as the front doors opened.  Blurred gaze watched the forms step out in a sort of weak and detached manner.

 

“Detective Lassiter?”

 

His forehead crumpled, but there was no other reaction to the sound of his name.

 

“Carl… oh God.”

 

And then one of the figures rushed to his side.  Had the strength existed, he would have swung his fist when the hand grasped his wrist.  Good thing he was weaker than a baby because he’d have clobbered his partner.

 

“O’Hara?”

 

Her eyes had turned to Spencer, the choked reaction assuring she wouldn’t be acknowledging him for a while.  While the younger woman pulled out her cell and dialed, summoning the ambulance that was obviously on standby, Carlton turned to the other person on his right.  Not surprisingly, Chief Vick was crouching beside him.

 

“H-how…?”

 

Her smile only flitted- vanishing when she started taking in his injuries.  “We uh… we managed to lift prints from the cassette that was mailed to the station.  Smart to wear masks.  Not so smart to forget gloves.  As soon as we identified Jasper Morten’s sons…”

 

“Morten?”  So that was the bastard behind this?

 

And then he was lifting his head again as the flashing lights of the ambulance quickly closed on their position.

 

“Shawn?”

 

His partner was gently running her hands over the unresponsive young man, much like he had done not so many minutes earlier.  Her eyes gave away every emotion as she scanned the horrible wounds on the tattered form.  She’d need to work on that- good detectives didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves.

 

Wheels crunched, and moments later they were swarmed by figures in white.  Carlton tried to insist on walking, but the rapid vibration in his limbs quickly earned him a spot on a gurney- and a rolling trip to the waiting vehicle.  A second ambulance was just pulling up behind the first, and as they started loading Carlton into the back, Shawn was guided past on his way to the other. 

 

He tried to watch, tried to keep his eyes on the other man.  But then a mask was obscuring his vision, and something sharp was pumping heat in his veins.

 

And then everything was floating.


	8. Heal

He swore he could feel himself hanging from the ceiling.  Raw wrists throbbed, the tightness of ropes cutting into flesh until the blood flowed down his arms, until circulation stopped and his palms grew numb. 

 

If he opened his eyes now he’d see steel walls and faces hidden by black masks.  If he opened his eyes now, it’d be only to close them again in pain when the fist pounded his side, or the blade slashed through his body.  He didn’t want to open his eyes.  If he kept them shut, then maybe he could tell himself he’d dreamt it all. 

 

If he kept them shut.

 

“I know you’re awake.”

 

He shuddered.  They were on to him, and now they were going to torture him whether he opened his eyes or not.  He didn’t even have a quip to offer, all humor dried up along with the spit in his mouth.  God he just wished he could pass out.

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

What was with the whispering?  Then he felt a touch against his face, and flinched sharply- eyes flipping open in sudden fear and pain.

 

His startled cry removed the touch, and as he focused, he saw the walls weren’t grey but white- his body lying down instead of hanging- and most importantly, most thankfully, the figure at his side was not a sadistic maniac with a sharp toy.

 

“D-dad…”

 

Oh God, that had better be the medication because he could feel something totally unwelcome, wet, and hot in the creases beneath his gaze.  The only way the sight of his father could induce tears would be if a lucky racing shirt were involved.  Just because some backwoods Neanderthals had gotten a little jabby didn’t mean he had to turn into Shawn soup at the first realization he was safe.

 

Faking an eye itch did wonders for hiding that little embarrassment.

 

“Good to see you too kid.”

 

Oh yeah- real subtle.  No way old man eagle eye could have seen that move given his need to point it out in typical sarcastic fash… wait.  Okay, now wha…?

 

Henry blinked rapidly before looking ceiling-ward. 

 

What was this?  Was Gruff McSnarl experiencing an allergy attack, or did his ‘wouldn’t cry if his leg were torn off by a threshing machine’ father just blink back tears as well?

 

Stubborn, though not unexpected, nary a single wet drop escaped. 

 

Still, even the odd sight of his visually emotional parent couldn’t distract from two very important matters for long.  Clenching teeth at the rapidly growing agony in his left arm, Shawn gasped as he thrust his head back into his pillow- his concern for another crabby individual unarticulated with the throat closing waves of pain that were really starting to take hold.

 

“I’ll get a nurse.”

 

Gus?  Gus was here too?  So much for heightened observation.

 

“Lassie?”

No more strength left to expand the question, the forced single word query seemed to be enough as his father pointed silently beyond them both.

Turning his head in the other direction, still panting at the escalating sensations in his damaged form, Shawn took in the sleeping form of his POW companion.

Then, almost on cue, the door opened, bringing back far more people than had exited.  Gus entered first, followed by a nurse about sixty years too old for acquiring a phone number from.  Unfortunately his father seemed to fit her tastes just fine when she winked at the older man flirtatiously. 

While trying to erase that particular exchange from his brain, Shawn raised his brows as two more people filed in- Juliet and Chief Vick.

“You’re awake!”

At the shapely lips smiling widely, Shawn grinned- ignoring the way it pulled the bruises.  “Jules!  Chief!”  He had a whole paragraph of wittiness he wanted to share, but the grimace that interrupted nixed that possibility. 

However, maybe that was a good thing because suddenly Juliet was at his side and smoothing her hand over his forehead.  About that same time, the Geriatric Hot Lips did something with his IV drip.

 

There might have been sounds other than the throbbing beat of his heart- he just wasn’t certain.  But eventually, as the hot stabs started to fade and the drained exhaustion began reasserting, he breathed out relief and relaxed once more.

Ooooohhh… niiiice…

“How do you feel?”

He continued grinning idiotically, not even caring that the two men beside him were both rolling their eyes.

“You’re pretty.”

Juliet blushed, reinforcing that statement.

“Oh God, please knock me out again.”

Shawn pivoted sideways once more, grin widening crazily- realizing the dopy effects of drugs were now fully in control of his way too giddy mood.

“Lassyface!”

Something in his head was making a Wizard of Oz reference.  Something else in his brain was telling him, quite ineffectually, that he should tone down the sparkles or he was really going to embarrass himself. 

Sobriety was so overrated.

Giving his father a grumpy run for his money, Lassiter was scowling furiously, the injuries on his face and body only adding to the weird Clint Eastwood Bride of Chucky lovechild aura.

“My scars will be cooler.”

Carlton made a sound that could either be a disgusted chortle or a phlegmy cough.

“Spencer, your scars will make you look like roadkill.  Trust me, you don’t have bragging rights on ass beatings.”

Shawn’s laugh was more drawn out and grating that an actual guffaw, bleary gaze going back towards his fan club- though one of their number had slipped to the contrary detective’s side.  That was okay though, it wasn’t Vick’s caress he was wanting.

He looked up at Juliet, pouting as best as he was able.  “My cheek is cold.”

Smiling again, she placed her palm against his jaw.  “Better?”

He closed his eyes, nodding without words.  Beside him, a short distance away, the Chief’s voice sounded with just the slightest hazy echo.

“Detective, do you think you’re up to giving a statement?”

Good, she was talking to Lassie.  Maybe he’d go all droney lecture-y and take up the chatty slack that was occupying the room now that Shawn had decided not to speak.  It was so much better to just lie there and have those soft fingers stroke his face.

It was a damn fine way to fall asleep again too.


	9. Can You Hear Me?

He hadn’t expected it.  Three weeks of nothing between them after a week of sharing the same hospital room.  No real conversation beyond “can you turn the damn channel?” or “Spencer, hold your gown together when you stumble to the bathroom.  If I wanted a peep show I’d watch Showtime.”  Pointing out that the hospital didn’t get cable really hadn’t helped.

The detective was released a week before Shawn, whose injuries were a bit more severe.  Daily bandage changes were bad enough with company- but enduring it alone was oddly worse.  Memories of his torture were hard to shake- every time he thought he’d driven away the pictures, they crept up front another angle.  Things that should have been benign- like the doctor checking his blood pressure- suddenly became freezing moments of terror where he found himself biting through his cheek to keep the emotion from his face.  The shaking, hopefully, had been written off as pain.

His father drove him home on the day he was finally allowed to leave.  By no means fully recovered, he was healthy enough that he probably wouldn’t drop dead at this point.  He’d just feel like it for some time to come.

Lassiter spent his own convalescence at home- something Shawn greatly envied.  Not quite so lucky, he’d been dragged to his father’s house very much against his will.  It wasn’t like he couldn’t cope with a few broken ribs, or a fractured wrist, or a crisscrossing of very long lacerations all across his torso, or… well, a gunshot wound in his arm- but that was healing just fine!  And…  Well…  He didn’t like the looks his father gave him.  He didn’t like that expression that wasn’t anger and wasn’t fear… but was somewhere in the same family.  A look like his father was watching something on life support that he knew wouldn’t die… but he wasn’t certain would fully recover either. 

He could be right about that.

Shawn was in the bathroom, staring into the mirror when he heard someone knock downstairs.  Probably Gus, his friend being about the only visitor they received these days. 

Running his fingertips over the pale lines permanently grooved into his body, he found he couldn’t even raise the humor to think he’d get a lot of pity dates out of this.  It was… ugly.  Still frowning at his reflection, he finally tugged his shirt over the whole mess- gasping at all the places that hurt with that aggravated motion.

There was another knock, this time at the bathroom door.  “Shawn?”

He rubbed at his side, clearing the hurts from his expression.  “Yeah?”

“Someone here to see you.” 

He nodded- pointless as it was unseen.  “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Footsteps moved the older man back down the hall and downstairs.  Muffled and indistinct words were spoken back and forth- and then it was quiet again.

Grabbing his prescription from the medicine cabinet, Shawn swallowed two pills and took a handful of water from the tap.  Capping the container, he placed it back on the shelf and closed the cabinet again- giving himself one more appraising look before dropping his gaze and achingly heading back out.

His father wasn’t around when he stepped into the living room.  His visitor, however, was standing by the couch.

Detective Lassiter.

“Lassie…”  Startled by the presence of the other man, he blurted in surprise without thought. 

As for the detective, he simply nodded in greeting.  “Spencer.”

Shawn lightly tapped his palms against his pant legs.  Meanwhile, Lassiter intently studied his fingernails- running his thumbnail beneath each ridge in concentrated grooming.  His coat was wet on the shoulders from the light shower outside.  Well.  How fun.

“You, uh… You want a beer or… something?”

Abandoning the self-manicure, the older man shrugged.  “Sure.  Not like I’ll be doing any police work until I complete my physical therapy.  Or get cleared by the shrink.  Or the Chief.”  Long suffering sigh and Lassiter commandeered Henry’s chair- groaning as he sank down.

Meanwhile, Shawn grabbed two beers from the fridge- popping the tops before returning to the other room and handing one to the detective before finding a spot on the couch- his own verbal discomfort swallowed, but the grimace making it through.  Lassiter didn’t comment on it.

The following minutes were empty.  Sipping their beverages, the two men found anything to look at but one another.  Shawn scratched his stomach- the knitting scars had been itchy for weeks.  He could feel the ridged flesh even through his shirt, and dropped his hand quickly.

Nearby, Lassiter’s half empty bottle clunked on the side table.  As for the younger man, he’d barely even sipped at the bitter liquid- finally giving up on the attempt and setting the water beaded container next to a coaster.

And now they didn’t even have alcohol as a distraction.

Fingertips drummed on jean clothed knees.  Blue eyes studied unblemished nails.  Wind peppered small drops of rain against the windows.  Shawn bounced one heel against the carpet.

He opened his mouth twice- only to close it as many times in silence.  What could he say?  He supposed thank you would be a start, if not remotely adequate.  But somehow, even the strength to form words was severely lacking.  It was too empty.

“I’m sorry…”

He blinked, small wrinkles creasing in his brow as he looked up at the quiet words.

“You…”  He shook his head in bafflement.  “Why are you sorry?  You sav… you saved my life.”  His lips clamped together in embarrassment- very much not used to feeling this way around the detective.  He looked down again at his knees- clasping his hands together between them.

“They weren’t after you.  You shouldn’t have even been there.”

Shawn forced a sickly laugh.  “Not much of a party when only one guy shows up.”  He ached from leaning forward, so he eased back- a whine silently shaking in his throat.  His palm rested briefly against his stomach before quickly redepositing to his thigh.  “They could have used more balloons though.”

Lassiter breathed out loudly.  “Jokes may be ice breakers in your world Spencer, but personally I’m not feeling the humor.”  The grim rebuke stole the conversation again, and Shawn sighed through his nose- looking in the general direction of the blank television just so that he was looking _somewhere_.  He saw his reflection gazing back in shades of grey, and turned towards the window instead.

In his peripheral vision he could see Lassiter finish his beer. 

He wished his father would return from wherever he’d secluded himself- realizing just how desperate he was for having that thought in the first place.

Now he heard fingertips clinking delicately against glass.  Gnawing at his lower lip rather than try to struggle with clumsy speech, Shawn glanced towards the clock above the mantle.  Fifteen minutes.  He’d had bandage changes that were less excruciating.

“Look, dude, I don’t blame you for anything.  So if you came by to unload or whatever- you can chill.  I’m fine, and…”

“Are you?”

Another attempt punctured.  Only this one stung a lot more.  He forced himself to meet the eyes actually examining him for the first time that afternoon.

“Yes, I’m fine.  Great actually- I dressed myself and everything today.  I even poured myself a bowl of cereal.  Had to have help with the orange juice though- but that’s just because Grouchy Gruffpants likes to stash it on the bottom shel…”

“It was my job to be the cop.  I was the one they wanted- and I was the one that should have been on that film.”  The blue eyes wouldn’t release him, and Shawn clenched his fist at his side and out of sight as Lassiter practically whispered the last of his confession.  “I was the one that should have been tortured.”

The reminder he’d been battling like a terminal disease flared up again at the words, and he shivered when the memory of casually delivered brutality cut with an echoing shriek across his chest.  Blinking to erase the cold gaze glaring from behind a black mask- he found it replaced with one that almost looked concerned.  But that wasn’t right.  This was Lassiter.  Lassieface.  He wasn’t concerned.  Concern implied caring- and Shawn knew for a fact that the tall detective felt- at best- a mild distain. 

He rubbed his arm - staring towards the window once more. “I’m fine.”  He insisted.

Lassiter only breathed out- apparently finished with his chat.  Shawn hoped so as the conversation had outlived its novelty.  He was ready to return to forgetting.  That might require something stronger than beer however.  Maybe Gus could score him some lithium…

There was a squeak of well-used springs as the other man stood.  He hovered for a moment, fingers twitching, before taking a single step forward- arm outstretched.

Shawn looked up to see a small business card held out to him.  He took it slowly- the name of a counselor on the face.

“Call them.”

He didn’t acknowledge the detective.  He didn’t watch as the man turned then, making his way towards the sliding door. 

One foot was over the threshold when Shawn, gaze still averted, pulled a deep breath- closing his eyes.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

He could feel the words that weren’t being said- the ones that couldn’t be said.  It was in the silence.  There was the drum of nail tips on the wood frame.

And then Lassiter left.

Shawn held the card- spinning it in his hands.

He sipped his beer- warm now and unappetizing.  He drank it anyway. 

His side throbbed and he wrapped an arm around his middle- trying to ignore the feel of scar tissue.

He spun the card.

He felt the blade cutting across his flesh.

He felt the ropes tearing into his wrists.

He felt bone break beneath his own weight as he hung from the ceiling.

It wasn’t going away.  It wasn’t going to go away. 

He finished his beer- curling his lip at the taste.  Something wet tickled down his cheek and he wiped it away.

And finally, feeling like defeat, he reached for his phone and dialed.

Three rings, and the voice on the other end picked up.

“Hi, my name is Shawn Spencer.”

He sucked in a hard breath. 

“I’d like to make an appointment…”


End file.
